


In Working Order

by batss



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 06:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5080975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batss/pseuds/batss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jack injures his hand, he is unable to shave, and Miss Fisher takes it upon herself to assist him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Working Order

“You are looking rather unlike your usual self today, Inspector.”

  
Phryne’s voice startles Jack from the door of his office. She is not usually able to surprise him, even with her proclivity for French perfume or her wooden heels that echo in the City South Station. Today, though, he had been concentrating too deeply on his latest case to notice her, into which the incomparable Miss Fisher had somehow not poked her nose.

 

Jack rubs his face with his left hand self-consciously. He can even hear the bristle of his stubble – now two days old, since he injured his right hand and found himself unable to shave.

“I haven’t yet found the time to go to the barber’s,” he explains, gesturing with his bandaged hand to the paperwork spread across his desk.

Miss Fisher is by his side in an instant. “Anything interesting?” she inquires, leaning over his shoulder, and ah yes, there’s the French perfume. Jack fumbles to tidy his papers.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, Miss Fisher,” he says. It is indeed a rather dull undertaking. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Only your acceptance of an invitation for dinner tonight. It has been so quiet in the, shall we say, murder business, I feel as if I have barely seen you at all.”

 

Jack turns from his papers to respond, to find that she is much closer than he thought. She is looking quite beautiful today, he can’t help but notice, even though that is something he observes every time he sees her. Her lips are red, as usual, and turning gently to a smile. Jack realises that he’s staring at her mouth, and forces his gaze upwards to her eyes. In turn, Miss Fisher’s glances darts down to his own, and a wave of heat rushes through him: he is sure for a second that she can tell how completely he is under her spell.

“I would be delighted,” Jack responds eventually, surprising himself with the depth of his voice.

“All right, then,” Miss Fisher says brightly, drawing back so quickly he is left feeling bereft. “I will see you tonight.”

She turns on her heel and leaves, and Jack is left, as he often is, wondering how this woman has wrapped him so thoroughly around her little finger, and how he has come to enjoy it so much.

 

* * *

 

As has happened most nights this week, it is past 6 o’clock by the time Jack is able to leave the station. He had better drive straight to 221B or he might be rudely late, but he pauses in the bathroom to inspect his reflection for a few moments. He scrubs at his stubble. Yet again, the barber’s will have long closed for the evening, and although he did intend to find the time to nip out during the day, he never quite managed to. Noticing a complaint from his stomach, Jack realises he also must have forgotten to stop for lunch.

 

Jack has shaved daily for so much of his life the sight of himself with a growing beard is unfamiliar. Rosie didn’t like it, even when he was away from work and at liberty to shave or not shave as he pleased. He looks, Jack thinks, kind of like a rogue. He looks, Jack can’t help but think, not entirely unlike some of the gentlemen Miss Fisher has entertained. He rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror. He can’t help his beard, but he can help being late to dinner, so he had better not dither any longer.

 

* * *

 

 

It is during dessert that Miss Fisher brings it up. She is less interested in her own pudding than in watching Jack devour his as quickly as he manners allow. She has that cocked-head look of observation about her, and Jack feels self-conscious under her scrutiny.

 

“I hope you don’t mind my rather rough appearance,” he apologises. “With my injury, I haven’t been able to shave, and I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to get to a barber.”

Her eyes brighten in response. “Why Jack, you had only need to say so. Mister Butler and I will be happy to assist you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The brush is badger, Jack suspects. Expensive, he is sure. The bristles are soft as she swirls cream onto his face, tickling gently. He tries to concentrate on the sound of it, and not the scent of Miss Fisher as she leans over him. Her sleek bob falls forward, so close to him that he can smell it. It’s a scent he recognises, but not one Jack had known to be the perfume of her hair. As Miss Fisher coats his face thoroughly in cream, he thinks he can even detect what must be the smell of her skin beneath the perfume: what she might smell like in the morning, while she is still lounging leisurely in bed…

 

He corrects his thoughts away from this dangerous territory, trying to observe the room around the periphery of Miss Fisher. She directed him to the bathroom, and sat him on a chair near the sink, disappearing for a moment to return with a basin of hot water and a shave kit in an elaborate brass case. Either Mister Butler is even more efficient than Jack had given him credit, or Miss Fisher had anticipated this series of events, and Jack swallows with nervousness at the thought of the latter.

 

Miss Fisher continues to apply the cream to cheeks and neck, pressing gently at his chin to manipulate the angle of his neck as it suits her. He has never been so laggard in his own application of shave cream, or perhaps it is that each moment lingers a little longer, and time feels a little slower with Miss Fisher this close to him.

 

She steps away, and Jack closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. Misunderstanding him, Miss Fisher asks, “Bracing yourself for me holding a blade to your neck? I assure you, Jack, I would not have offered if I did not think myself capable.”

 

Bracing is indeed the right word, but not in the way Miss Fisher intended it, Jack thinks. He opens his eyes, and Miss Fisher is smirking at him with a safety razor in hand. She has it balanced between her thumb and forefinger in a loose grip, her delicate wrists looking elegant. He swallows. “I trust you, Miss Fisher.”

 

She smiles at this, pleased. “Now,” she says, taking his chin in her hand. He almost flinches, with her hand so gently on his face, her fingers curling under his chin, just brushing his sensitive skin. This is an exquisite sort of torture, Jack thinks. She manoeuvres the angle of his head, and he escapes her intense gaze gladly as his head is tilted towards the sink.

 

She pulls the razor gently across his skin, a smooth line down his cheek. True to her word, she lets the razor glide. It is so light a touch it almost tickles; Jack wonders why he ever doubted her. She pauses between passes to rinse the blade in the basin beside him, keeping her steadying hand on his face.

 

There is no safe place to look. He tries looking at her eyes, observing her delicate eyelashes, the blend of eyeshadow at the corners of her eyes, but despite her steady concentration on the task at hand, her gaze darts up to meet his, and he feels uncomfortably like he has been caught in the act.

 

Her mouth, though, is just as dangerous: as she guides the razor gently around his own mouth, she adopts a pout of concentration that captivates him entirely. Worse: she bites gently at her lower lip, and it is so seductive Jack is sure she is playing a joke on him. He looks up at her eyes to see no humour there, just focus. She must not even be aware she is doing it, he realises. How is it that a woman so in possession of her own seductive allure remains unaware of how tempting she looks like this?

 

Reprieving, she next tilts his chin upward, and Jack looks to the ceiling. It takes his absolute focus to not swallow. It is like an erotic touch; his skin tingles as the razor glides across it. But not so much as her fingers. Between strokes, she brushes her thumb across his skin. She is looking to see if she needs a second or third pass, he realises: she is being delicate with skin. He wonders if Miss Fisher has noticed the trail of gooseflesh that rise in the wake of her touch. His face feels hot: is he blushing? Are his ears pink? He swallows as her thumb touches his Adam’s apple, his mouth suddenly dry.

 

She turns his face again, and this time his view is her delicate clothing. Layers of silk. He cannot see the stitching, and the garments are in impeccable care. Jack’s gaze skirts lower, following her neckline to the swell of her breasts. God, he can see where the fabric layers: that is the outline of brassiere. There, lower, is the discreet bump of a nipple.

 

Cupping his cheek, she turns him to look at her, and his breath stutters in his throat. He closes his eyes for a moment to steady himself, and when he opens them she is pressing a hot towel to his face. Miss Fisher gently wipes at the shaving cream left behind, and he turns his face obligingly as she goes.

 

When she finishes, Miss Fisher places the towel down, and takes his face in her hands. His skin feels new. He feels like he could draw her fingerprints from the whorl of them on his cheek.

 

“There,” she says, so gently the moment remains strung between them. She takes her hands from his face slowly, almost reluctantly, and places them on his shoulders.

“How did you become so practised at shaving a man?” Jack asks. She is still so close. His voice is husky.

“As a nurse,” she says, and he is satisfied to hear that she is affected too. “I often shaved the unconscious soldiers in my care.”

Her gaze is heavy and heady. It might be the quality of the light in the bathroom, but her pupils have dilated. Her eyes dart down to his mouth, and he swallows nervously. She shifts minutely, and it brings her just a little closer, her legs brushing his.

 

He cannot linger in this moment. It is too fraught, and he fears he’s going to break it by doing something drastic. They have skirted around this territory before, but not quite for so long, and in not so private a space. This bathroom with the door nearly closed, just down the hall from her bedroom, in a house with discreet staff – it is entirely too possible that if he were to kiss her, she would not stop him. Or worse, she would encourage him, and they would spend the night together, but in the morning she would not be able to return the depth of feeling he has for her, and it would shatter this partnership that he treasures so much.

 

Jack clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says again. His voice is louder, resolute, and when he moves to stand she lets him. Her hands fall away from his shoulders. As they do, he places his good hand on her shoulder, and closes the brief distance between them to press a kiss to her cheek. Jack keeps the kiss fleeting, fighting his every instinct to do the opposite. He can feel her stiffen, and he doesn’t wish to startle her.

 

He pulls back, thanks her again, and turns to leave. He glances back at her from the doorway of the bathroom, and Miss Fisher has not moved. She doesn’t watch him leave. He gathers his hat and coat and says goodbye to Mister Butler, and tries to feel like he hasn’t entirely ran away.

 

Safely in his car, Jack presses a hand to his cheek, chasing the feel of Miss Fisher’s touch on his skin.

 

Unbeknownst to him, Miss Fisher is still standing in her bathroom, hand on her own cheek, doing the same.


End file.
